19. A Gentleman’s Duty #4
They were smiling at each other. The smiling was the kind that held layers beneath its surface—humor and relief and the charge of two people who were circling something neither would name—and Darcy was aware, with a specificity that bordered on pain, of every detail in the room: the light on her face, the ink on her fingers, the curl at her neck, the way her lips shaped the word temporary as though it were a private joke, the flush that had not entirely faded from her cheeks.
“And the matter of disgusting,” he said. The word arrived before he could restrain it. “In my letter, I characterized your reception of my proposal with that word. I need to know, Miss Bennet—do you still find the subject so objectionable?”
“Those were your words, Mr. Darcy.” Elizabeth’s voice held a blade, but the blade was lighter than he expected. “Not mine.”
“You are right. They were my words. But they were not wrong, were they? You were disgusted.”
Something flickered across her expression—not the fortress, not the wit, but the honesty that cost her more than either. “I was angry. Disgusted was your interpretation.”
“And now?”
She held his gaze, and then she looked away toward the garden window with the quick, decisive movement of a woman who had seen something in his eyes she was not prepared to examine.
“Now I have a ball to prepare for,” she said, and her voice carried the brightness of a woman reclaiming lighter ground.
“And I intend to enjoy every minute of it. Allegra tells me that a first Season is meant for discovering what one likes, not for making permanent decisions, and I find her advice considerably more useful than anything in Fordyce.”
“She is wise.”
“Experienced, which is better than wise. She says I should dance with everyone, observe everything, and commit to nothing until I have sufficient evidence to form a judgment worth trusting.” The brightness strengthened, and the Elizabeth who loved fun and dancing and the magnificent absurdity of the ton reasserted herself.
“I shall be very careful, Mr. Darcy. You will not find me wandering into portrait galleries with strangers nor accepting tours of wine cellars. My gloves will stay on in public, and my wit honed in private. I shall thoroughly enjoy myself, because I have been given a London Season and I do not intend to spend it being frightened.”
“I would never wish you to be frightened.”
“No.” Her voice softened. “I do not believe you would… although we have been alone for quite a long time, haven’t we? And no, a sleeping dog does not constitute a proper chaperone.”
“Lady Sophia left us alone to discuss matters that required candor,” he said. “The door has been open throughout.”
“The door has been ajar, which you yourself noted is not the same thing.” Elizabeth’s expression held the ironic brilliance of a woman deploying his own lecture against him.
“And by the standards of the ton , this morning constitutes our second private audience. The first being a certain parsonage in Kent where, as I recall, you delivered a speech of considerable passion while my hosts were conveniently absent.”
“I am aware of the parallel.”
“And then there was the matter of holding hands without gloves in Hyde Park before forty witnesses. Which, you have just informed me, was interpreted as intimacy.” Her voice was hushed, so intimate that he felt his gaze drawn irresistibly to her lips.
“By the ton’s accounting, you have now compromised me on three separate occasions, Mr. Darcy.
Your reputation as a man of impeccable propriety is considerably more theoretical than I had been led to believe. ”
She was testing him. He could see it in the brightness of her eyes and the set of her mouth. She was not frightened or offended. She was probing.
“I would never damage your reputation,” he said, and his voice was steady, because this was ground that did not shift.
“And I would rather you refused every gentleman in London than be maneuvered into a position that left you no choice. You should marry only a man you can respect, Miss Elizabeth. Anything less would be?—”
“Disgusting?” she supplied, and the word landed with perfect comic timing. They both laughed, truly shared the delight of their private joke.
“I was going to say unconscionable,” he said. “But your word will serve.”
“It is your word, Mr. Darcy. We have established this.”
“So we have.” He allowed the smile, and the allowing was itself a surrender. “Would the supper dance fill you with disgust?”
“No, I shall grant it to you,” Elizabeth said. “With one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You must dance with proper enthusiasm, and if your feet are as competent as your canal assessments, I expect an exceptional performance.”
“My feet are adequate.”
“Adequate is not the standard I require from a man who claims the supper dance.” She gathered her papers and rose, pausing at the door. “I require excellence, Mr. Darcy. I have very high standards.”
“I am aware of your standards, Miss Bennet. I have been failing to meet them since Hertfordshire.”
“Not failing.” The smile returned—not the teasing one or the arch one, but the one like a hand placed over his heart. “Improving.”
She departed with a lingering smile—the beginning of something he dared not name.
Nettle woke from her position on the rug, stretched with the full-body satisfaction of a terrier who had slept through an entire revolution in human affairs, and dropped the leather ball at his feet.
He picked it up. Threw it down the corridor. Listened to the small paws on marble that sounded, strangely, like applause.